The sun was already dipping toward the west, casting a warm, golden haze over the endless grasslands. Six hours of near-constant travel had left the soldiers sore and parched. Even the mighty war-horses, with their unnatural stamina, began to snort and slow.
"Halt!" Vick's voice cut across the wind.
The command rippled down the long column, and the army drew to a stop. Hooves stamped the earth, chariots creaked, and the air filled with the mingled sounds of men and beasts exhaling relief. Some soldiers dismounted, stretching cramped legs, while others loosened their armor straps to breathe more easily.
Vid followed the others, grateful for the break. His thighs ached from gripping the saddle for so long, and a dull throb pulsed behind his eyes. The long ride had given him too much time to think… and that was the problem.
Vick dismounted with practiced ease, walking among the men like a commander who knew each of their faces and strengths. When his gaze fell on Vid, there was no softness in it, but neither was there coldness. Just an appraisal — the kind of look that measured the weight of a man's spirit.
"I've read you, boy," Vick said plainly, stopping beside him. "The Rakshas destroyed your town. Killed your family. That's why you're here."
Vid's throat tightened, but he gave a silent nod.
"You want strength," Vick continued, "then you'll learn the way of this world. We all wield something deeper than muscle or steel. We call it presence. The will made real. The force that turns an ordinary strike into something unstoppable… or shields you from a killing blow."
He gestured for Vid to sit. "First step is to meditate. Close your eyes. Feel your breath. Let your mind empty, and find the weight of yourself in the space around you."
Vid obeyed, lowering himself to the grass. The sounds of the army faded — the murmurs of men, the clink of armor, the restless snorts of horses — until only his own heartbeat remained.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
But as soon as the darkness behind his eyelids settled, he saw it.
His home burning.The wooden beams cracking under the heat.The twisted shapes of Rakshas in the smoke.His mother's scream.His father's fall.And worst — his little brother, reaching for him, eyes wide in terror, before being pulled into the chaos.
Vid's breath hitched. His fists clenched until the knuckles ached.
No matter how he tried, the images wouldn't fade. They were carved into him — not memories, but wounds that bled every time he touched them.
The grass beneath him seemed to blur. His chest heaved, not from exertion, but from the weight of helplessness pressing down like an iron hand.
Vick's voice came from somewhere far away. "Focus, Vid. Presence starts with stillness. If your mind is a storm, your blade will always waver."
But Vid could only shake his head, his jaw tight. "I… can't," he whispered.
He opened his eyes, staring down at his trembling hands. In that moment, he felt smaller than ever — a boy among warriors, clutching at a dream that seemed too far to reach.
Vick crouched beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder. It was not gentle, but firm — grounding. "Then we'll make you able," he said. "Step by step. Until the storm listens to you."
And for the first time, Vid believed it might be possible.
Boomipura—the beating heart of the Boomi Empire—was a city carved into both earth and sky. Its golden towers rose like spears into the clouds, the sprawling streets below paved with dark basalt stone mined from the ancient belly of the continent. The wide avenues were filled with thousands of citizens, their cheers rising like a tidal wave that could be heard even at the farthest gate.
Today was not just another day in the imperial calendar—it was a day of celebration. The banners of victory fluttered in every direction, their crimson and gold threads catching the early morning sun. The victory at Dand Valley had been hard-earned. The Rakshas had been pushed back after weeks of bloody fighting, their monstrous siege finally broken by the sheer force and cunning of the imperial army.
But amid the cheers, there was an unspoken truth: this victory was only a momentary breath before the next storm.
Inside the grand palace, the air was thick with incense. Musicians strummed the veenas and blew the conch shells in long, deep notes. The marble floors gleamed, each tile polished until it reflected the flicker of torches. At the heart of it all sat Emperor Parth Vij, draped in a long robe woven from gold-threaded silk, his broad shoulders glinting under his ceremonial armor.
He was no ceremonial monarch. Parth Vij was a warrior emperor, his left forearm still wrapped in bandages from the battle at Dand Valley, a faint stain of blood seeping through despite the healers' protests. His eyes—sharp, unwavering—swept the great hall as the nobles and commanders entered in their finest attire.
The Victory Feast was underway. Long tables overflowed with roasted meats, spiced rice, bowls of fragrant lentils, honey-glazed breads, and goblets of the empire's finest wine. The hall was alive with voices, yet beneath the joy was the hum of preparation, like a war drum quietly beating beneath the music.
The Emperor Speaks
When the last of the cups had been filled and the hall had quieted under the weight of his gaze, Parth Vij rose. His voice, deep and unyielding, carried across the chamber.
"People of Boomi. Warriors of my blood and my land. Today, we celebrate victory at Dand Valley—not because we won, but because we endured."
The room listened in rapt silence.
"The Rakshas thought to break us there. They sent their beasts, their flames, their endless tide of savagery. Yet, we stand here still, our banners flying over the valley they sought to claim. But…" He paused, his hand tightening on the edge of the table. "…do not be lulled by celebration. For the enemy does not sleep. Even now, their claws stretch toward Gangi Valley."
A murmur moved through the crowd like a gust of wind before a storm.
"In two months," Parth continued, "the southern troop of Rakshas, led by the accursed Hirnya Brothers, will descend upon that valley. Gangi is not just a land of beauty—it is the last gate before the central plains. If it falls, Boomipura itself will be next."
He looked to his generals. "That is why I will not wait for them to come. I will ride with the might of Boomi to Gangi Valley. We will meet them there, on ground we choose, and crush their advance before it reaches our heart."
The Council of Steel
After the public feast, the grand hall emptied of most nobles and performers, leaving only the Council of Steel—the emperor's war council.
A massive map of the empire lay stretched across the long oak table, markers of carved jade representing divisions of troops. Commander Arjan, a man with a voice like gravel and scars that mapped his face, pointed to the valley's position.
"The Hirnya Brothers are no ordinary foes, Majesty," he said. "The younger, Hirnya Suth, commands beasts bred in the Deep Wastes—creatures that can smash through fortified walls. The elder, Hirnya Kaal, is a master of siegecraft. If they arrive in full force, Gangi's natural passes will be no protection."
Parth leaned forward, his armored knuckles pressing into the map. "Then we will make Gangi not a wall, but a spear. We will strike first, dig in, and bleed them before their siege engines ever touch our soil."
General Meera, the youngest and only woman on the council, spoke with measured precision. "If we move the full Imperial Guard, it will take us twenty-eight days to reach Gangi, even with the super horses and the old sky-road vehicles. That leaves us a month to fortify before the Rakshas arrive."
"And what of supply lines?" asked Arjan. "A siege could last longer than a year."
Parth's eyes hardened. "Then we will bring enough provisions for two."
Shadows in the Celebration
Outside the council chamber, the streets of Boomipura remained bright and noisy, but in the darker alleys, whispers moved like snakes. The merchants spoke of shortages in the border provinces, and the healers murmured about the rising number of wounded soldiers returning from the front.
One old soldier, his leg missing below the knee, sat by the palace gates and muttered to any who would listen: "Victory? Aye, we won Dand Valley, but the Hirnyas… they are coming, and they bring the end with them."
The Emperor's Resolve
Later that night, Parth stood alone on the balcony of the palace's highest tower. The wind carried the faint smell of flowers from the imperial gardens, but his mind was far from peace.
He thought of the men and women who had fallen at Dand Valley—friends, comrades, people whose names would never be sung outside their home villages. He thought of the Gangi Valley, with its lush green slopes and crystal rivers, and how its beauty would soon be drenched in blood if he failed.
And he thought of the god Vishwa, the ancient figure from forgotten tales, whom the priests claimed had once walked the earth to save it from ruin. Some whispered that only Vishwa's return could turn the tide against the Rakshas forever.
Parth did not know if he believed in gods. But he did believe in steel, in strategy, and in the will of his people.
Preparations Begin
By dawn the next day, the orders had been given. From the armories, the clang of metal rang as smiths forged new blades and repaired battered armor. The stables were alive with restless super horses, massive creatures bred for endurance and speed, their coats glistening in the morning sun.
From the hangars of the old imperial tech vaults, ancient land vehicles—relics of an age before the Great Collapse—were hauled into the light. Engineers worked day and night to repair their engines, which ran on the rare lumen stones found deep beneath the earth.
Messengers rode out in every direction, carrying sealed orders to rally troops from every province. Farmers near the border were moved inland, their lands converted into supply depots.
And in the heart of the city, in a courtyard large enough to hold a thousand soldiers, the Imperial Guard assembled. Row upon row of warriors in gleaming armor, shields resting against their knees, spears and swords aligned with military precision. The sound of their boots on stone echoed like thunder.
The Oath of Gangi
On the fifteenth day after the victory feast, Parth himself stood before the assembled army. His voice, amplified by the stone acoustics of the courtyard, reached every ear.
"Men and women of Boomi, the time for rest has ended. Ahead lies the Gangi Valley, where the fate of our land will be decided. The Rakshas think they can sweep across our world like wildfire. They are wrong. We are the rain that will quench their flames. We are the shield that will not break. And we are the sword that will strike until the enemy falls!"
He drew his sword—a massive blade named Surya's Fang—and raised it high. The army responded in unison, voices merging into a single war cry that shook the very air:
"For Boomi! For the Emperor! For the Gangi!"
Two Months of Shadows
Even as the preparations surged forward, reports from scouts confirmed the inevitable—the southern Rakshas troop was moving. Villages along the Deep Wastes reported monstrous shapes on the horizon, and night skies lit by the glow of their warfires.
The Hirnya Brothers were coming.
And in the quiet hours between the clamor of preparation, Emperor Parth Vij would sometimes find himself staring toward the distant south, where the mountains hid the valley that would soon become the grave of thousands.
He was ready to face them. But deep inside, a shadow of doubt whispered—what if the stories of Vishwa were true, and without that god's hand, all their steel and courage would crumble?
Still, he would not yield. The banners of Boomi would fly over Gangi, or he would die ensuring they did.
And so, with the drums of war echoing across the empire, the march toward Gangi Valley began.
Far across the seas, in the heart of the Vrinda Continent, the golden spires of Madhurpuri gleamed under the pale light of dusk. Within its walls, the air was thick with tension. The capital of the Mathur Empire was restless — rumors whispered through the streets like shadows, each one darker than the last.
Inside the cold, damp corridors of the imperial prison, Kanq, the feared and ruthless Emperor of Mathur, walked with slow, deliberate steps. The torches along the stone walls hissed and sputtered, casting long flickering shadows that danced like specters around him. His black armor, etched with blood-red sigils, clinked with each step.
At the deepest cell, behind thick iron bars, sat a frail old man — his hair a tangled mess of silver, his clothes worn to rags, his eyes still carrying the pride of a man who once commanded armies. This was Kanq's father, once a ruler, now a prisoner.
Kanq stopped before the cell, his gaze sharp and merciless."Where is the boy?" Kanq's voice was low but filled with venom. "I have been searching for him — the one foretold to kill me. Tell me, Father, where is he?"
The old man raised his head slowly, his expression heavy with grief and disgust."I have committed my greatest sin by bringing you into this world, Kanq." His voice was hoarse but steady. "Your heart has been blackened beyond redemption. You believe yourself unstoppable, but the Lord Vishwa will bring your end — and not only yours, but that of every soul who walks the path of evil."
Kanq's eyes narrowed, but the old man continued, his voice growing stronger."The sage spoke truly… Your death will come at the hands of your sister's son. You thought you destroyed that prophecy when you murdered your sister in cold blood… but I saved her child. My grandson lives. And one day… he will return to save me, and to destroy you."
For a moment, silence fell between them. Then, like a spark igniting dry leaves, rage exploded in Kanq's eyes. His breathing grew heavy, his jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth ground together.
"Then I will crush him too," Kanq growled, his voice turning into a roar. "I will burn every prophecy, every hope, every savior this world tries to create!"
In a sudden flash, Kanq drew his curved blade. The steel gleamed cruelly in the dim light. Without hesitation, he swung.
A sickening thud echoed through the stone halls as the old man's head fell, his lifeless body slumping against the cell wall. Blood pooled at the base of the bars, its dark red reflecting the torchlight.
Kanq sheathed his blade and looked down at his father's corpse, his expression cold, almost indifferent."I, Kanq, will take down this entire world… and rule all of it," he declared, his voice like iron — a promise of war to every corner of every land.
Outside, the night wind howled through the towers of Madhurpuri, carrying his words into the darkness — a darkness that now had a name.